


Nightmares Are Just Dreams

by Scarlet_Nin



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Gen, Hot Chocolate, Implied Insomnia, Light Angst, Mention of the Kokuyou Gang, Nightmares, Platonic Cuddling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:40:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23811733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scarlet_Nin/pseuds/Scarlet_Nin
Summary: Fran suffers from nightmares after the Vindice attacked them, so he goes out to bother the one person who’s awake in the dead of the night.
Relationships: Flan | Fran & Rokudou Mukuro
Kudos: 35





	Nightmares Are Just Dreams

Few things made Fran feel true fear.

The notion of an illusionist being scared of his own nightmares is laughable. For someone relishing in the ability to draw out fear in his opponents, Fran shouldn’t be reduced to a child hiding under his blanket, unable to fall asleep due to the flashes of rotten flesh warped in bandages, the rattling of chains and blood splattering across the floor every time he closes his eyes.

But he _is_. Aware of every little noise, the echo of chiming bells haunting him and his eyes flicker across the room, trying to locate the presence of deep-rooted bitterness poisoning the air those harbingers of death wear in place of skin. People with an affinity to Mist Flames are born naturally sensitive to the aura of other people, other elements. Hiding can only be done when one can mask his senses to the point he fades into nothingness, a light snuffed out with the snap of a finger. Other Flames, while capable of recognizing a presence, cannot pick apart the components of such an aura with the fineness of a Mist. Aside from perhaps a Sky, other elements cannot use every sense to differentiate between the soul and vessel. They can see the brightness, the purity of a flame and feel its warmth or the killing intent permeating the air, but they cannot feel the emotions powering the flames. Much like synesthesia, a Mist’s body is a trigger chain of reactions following the previous one. All locked together to create a full picture in mind.

How annoying. Numbing himself to these sensations is unhealthier than getting used to them. The stronger his own presence grows, the better control he has over his own perception, the less likely he is to fall victim to being oppressed underneath an another’s. Fear slackens his iron grip until he’s struggling to keep himself afloat in the rushing waves of emotions threatening to drown him.

The best weapon against an illusionist was an illusion after all. Blindside them with fear and they’ll lose themselves to the horrors of their own minds. Regaining footing on slippery ground instead of solid, smooth concrete is far more difficult.

“It stinks,” Fran whispers into the dead of the night, climbing out of his bed, cursing the squeaky noise of protest the springs in his bed make. The floor underneath his bare feet is colder than ice as he paddles out of his room into their lounge, hoping to escape the phantom odor of death reeking throughout their hideout, making him wrinkle his nose. “Worse than Ken.”

For all the dog’s lack of hygienical care, his presence always had a sort of sunny exuberance to dampen the smell of wet dog. Sun Flames shining through his feral grins as fierce as the first rays of the sun piercing through the curtains to rose them from sleep, Ken never felt cold to Fran. The perfect opposite to Chikusa’s refreshing presence of Rain and mint. Having them together in the same room and feeling their presence mingle and harmonize with each other’s felt like enjoying the summer breeze drifting across his skin.

It’s a pleasant smell of familiarity, but it’s not what Fran needs nor wants.

He halts when he sees a figure sitting in the dark on the worn-down couch, for once not keeping up the poise of a king sitting on a throne. What little light shines in through the broken remains of too many windows to fix, casts a pale glow onto the surface of the room, creating as many shadows as it banishes from sight.

“Oya, oya,” Mukuro’s voice drifts across the distance, easy to hear despite being a murmur. A haunting noise of pain to some, a sound of comfort for others. “It’s way past your bedtime, little one.”

“I’m getting into my rebellious phase, Master.” Fran deadpans, closing the distance with quiet steps, careful not to create too much noise. “I don’t need bedtime stories to fall asleep or getting tucked into bed.”

All things his granny used to do for him. Telling him stories of fairies and a wonderland within his reach, full of creatures willing to play with him, to keep him company when loneliness sunk into his bones, washing the world out of its vivid colors and leaving behind a dull shell splashing in the upstreaming river.

The thought of her causes his heart to twist uncomfortably.

“You already are,” Mukuro retorts, words lacking the usual heat. His right eye, the same shade of red Fran’s missing apple head wears with pride, gleams in the light the moon offers. “From what I’ve seen, you never quite grow out of it either.”

“Master’s grown soft,” Fran sits down on the other end of the couch, the squeaking noise echoing across the room. “There wasn’t any anger in your voice at all. Let’s try that again, but this time more convincing, okay?” He claps his hands together.

His mocking question earns him a hand taking ahold of his ear, pulling harshly. Fran winces at having his ears twisted, hissing and whining in pain at the rough treatment.

“Actions speak louder than words, right?” Mukuro bares his teeth in the parody of a charming grin but after one rough twist his grip softens. He lets Fran pull away and cradle his ear, rubbing at the aching spot tingling with warmth.

His Master’s hands are surprisingly warm without the tacky gloves he always insists upon wearing.

“It hurts,” Fran says flatly, curling away, “Your progressive discipline methods are the worst.”

Mukuro snorts, looking pleased with himself and the way his shoulders puff up makes the uncanny resemblance to his snow owl preening under praise more prominent. One arm thrown over the back of the couch, one leg crossed over the other, he relaxes a little further into his seat, titling his head back to stare at the ceiling.

“You’re being mean,” Fran choses to fill the silence, because leaving his Master to his thoughts for long periods of time resulted in brooding. The plaguing late-night thoughts were the reason he’d been sitting out here on his own in the first place. “You’re not paying any attention to me even though I came out here to sit with you.”

Mukuro glances towards him, not bothering to hide the darkening circles underneath his eyes with an illusion like he’s done during the day, and narrows his eyes. Fran doesn’t shrink away from the sharp gaze—preferring them to be calm and stern rather than wide with shock and fear as his head is being held, bandages fingers taking ahold of his hair, pushing into his skull—

“Another one?” He asks, already knowing the answer but taking no pride in being right. Without his ironed green jacket, he looks softer, another piece of armor having fallen to reveal the faintest batch of pale skinned scars on his arms.

“I had a nightmare,” Fran confirms, playing with his sweaty palms. “About the Shinigami.”

Mukuro stays silent.

“I’m scared of them,” He pushes on, wiping his hands on his sweatpants. He risks a glance at Mukuro’s face, twisted into a frown and looks back down at his lap, at his hands where he can feel the sticky blood of his Master stain his hand as he’d pulled Fran close and hissed at him to be quiet in the close space of their cellar hideout.

No matter how often he washes them or wipes them on his clothes, the stickiness won’t come off.

“There’s no shame in being scared,” The words are firm, the hand laid on his head gentle. “It’s good to know your fears, this way you can learn not to let them control you.”

“I don’t want them to come back.” His bluntness doesn’t take away any of his sincerity. He shuffles closer to Mukuro’s side, the faint smell of pine and steady pulse of beats resonating with his own set of Mist Flames drawing him in like a moth to a flame. More than anything the sensation of his Master’s Flames curling around his own, an invisible but possessive embrace of safety and protection, feels like a home. A place to belong to without fearing to be smothered underneath someone else’s will for their own gain.

He doesn’t want them to take this away from him. Not again, not forever.

The land of green grass tickling his feet, the fresh breeze ruffling his hair with him chasing after the butterflies dancing an inch out of reach for him to grasp onto, colors and shapes of different kinds, each more beautiful than the last. Pink flowers blooming out of the crystal-clear river water to rise into the sky, the petals soft to touch. The pebbles he skips across the water flying farther with each throw. Sunlight kissing his skin, drying him off from playing in the chilly water and the apple tree steadily growing each day marking his progress of height and skill.

He wants to learn how to create a land of fairies like his Master has shown him and the woman he’s so fond off. Wants to bring his imagination to life to make his granny proud and to have something which will last forever. His own wonderland.

He cannot do that on his own. Doesn’t want to figure it out himself.

_I don’t want them to come back for you._

“They won’t,” Mukuro’s answer is final and unyielding. He uncrosses his legs. Fran takes the invitation, curling up on his side while flopping down on the pillow for his head and hears Mukuro sigh. “You’re such a handful.” The hand petting his hair doesn’t stop.

“It’s your duty as my Master to take care of me.” Fran points out, relaxing and fighting back a yawn. Mukuro scoffs, tugging at his hair in reprimand. Fran closes his eyes, lying in the dark without fear and snuggles closer to the warmth, shifting so his head is laying more comfortably on his Master’s lap.

“Go to sleep,” Mukuro orders softly, stroking his bangs out of his face. “I’ll keep the nightmares away, little one.”

_I know,_ Fran doesn’t doubt his Master’s abilities in the least to keep him from harm. Instead of voicing his thoughts, he surrenders to the gentle pull of Mist Flames lulling him to sleep.

The next morning it’s Fran who wakes up first, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. There’s a patch of drool sticking to the corner of his mouth, partly dried and he doesn’t bother to wipe it off because why move when he’s so comfortable?

His pillow underneath him shifts, rising and falling softly, jostling him. Fran blinks, squinting to get his eyes to adjust. Rolling over slightly, he falls into the space of the couch and Mukuro’s arm, getting pulled closer as the arm curls loosely around his back. When he dares to peer up, holding back a sneeze at the hair tickling his nose, he gets a close-up view of Mukuro’s sleeping face, lips parted to breathe, expression serene and hair sticking up wilder than usual as his head rests on the couch arm. When he shifts to get more comfortable and to avoid digging his elbow into Mukuro’s ribs—both equally pointy and uncomfortable to have pressing into soft skin—he notices the blanket thrown over them.

Come to think of it, the lights haven’t been switched on either despite the clock on the coffee table saying its early noon.

…it’s not his problem to worry about, Fran decides, closing his eyes and hoping to get a few more hours of sleep.

Another hour later his wake-up call leaves him a grumpy mess.

Mukuro outright cringes in disgust, calling him gross for slobbering all over his shirt when he’s awake, pushing him off the couch and onto the floor with no mercy for Fran’s head. He hits the floor hard, apple hat appearing out of smoke, clutching his head, complaining about the pain and unnecessary brute force.

“I had such nice dreams about a pineapple fairy, Master—”

“Kufufu,” The trident is piercing his hat before he can finish his sentence, Mukuro towering over him with a chilling smile far too sinister for just having woken up. Not a morning person then, but he wisely doesn’t announce his new observation, keeping it to himself in the face of getting whacked over the head. “Let’s turn them into nightmares then, shall we~?”

His Master’s early homicidal tendencies aside, Fran is hungry, so he runs for the kitchen.

“Oya, oya, you want to play a little game of hide and seek? That’s fine by me.”

The game goes on for a full hour and Ken, who inevitably ends up being used as a meat shield to save Fran from getting hit with a ball of paint and fruit juices, suffers as they chase him towards the baths. They make sure not to hit any of Verde’s stuff laying around, knowing the repercussions for destroying valuable technology could come to bite them back in the ass.

It doesn’t stop Mukuro from using the glove to splash Ken with a blast of water fresh out of a water hose. Screams and laughter echoes through the halls of Kokuyou Land until the late evening and Fran goes to bed with a new bruise but lighter heart.

The next time he has a nightmare he’s not surprised to see his Master still up, nursing a cup of hot chocolate with too much chocolate powder to be healthy, petting the free spot on the couch without looking up from his magazine.

Fran takes a sip from the mug waiting for him and startles at the taste. It’s actually pretty good.

When he tells Mukuro that, he gets whacked over the head with a rolled-up magazine.

He doesn’t point out it’s M. M’s.

**Author's Note:**

> I love these two.


End file.
